Four Leaf Clover
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: In honor of St. Paddy's day, a certain Floridan Leprechaun decides to play matchmaker... and gets a few surprises of his own! Sheer fluff! RS, TT. Happy St. Patrick's day!


Disclaimer: I don't own Malcolm, Trip, Hoshi or T'Pol, or any other random ENT characters I happen to mention. I certainly don't own the concept of leprechauns; I am merely asserting my love for all things Star Trek and Irish. 

Summary: In honor of St. Patrick's day, a certain Floridan leprechaun attempts to play matchmaker. But is there another, more sinister force behind the glitter? Eh, probably not. This is sheer fluff. R/S, T/T.

AN: Malcolm's opening lines are personally inspired. That's how I greet my lucky friends, every morning. _Welcome to Wednesday, March 17, 2004, which will be remarkably similar to Tuesday, March 16, 2004…_ that's usually all I have time to say before at least one person tells me to shut my yap. 

****

Four-Leaf Clover

__

Welcome to March 17, 2154, Malcolm Reed though ruefully. _Which will be remarkably similar to March 16, 2154._ Every day in the Expanse was the same.

He woke up at o-six hundred hours, showered, dressed, and was in the Mess by six-thirty. After (green?) pancakes with peanut butter and five minutes awarded to himself to sit and stare serapticiously at the radiance that was Hoshi Sato, he returned to his quarters to catch up on some possible weapons upgrades. Finally, with fifteen minutes to go before o-eight hundred, he left his quarters and headed to the bridge for his shift. 

It was in the corridor on the way to his post that he began to notice something odd. Most of the officers he passed, headed for stations of their own as Alpha shift began, were decked out in entirely non-regulation green accessories. Two crewman first class that he passed by were wearing obnoxiously lime-colored shamrock pins on their uniform breasts, and the red-headed, freckle-faced Ensign Flynn was wearing such an elaborately emerald "Kiss me I'm Irish" necklace that Reed considered reporting her to the Captain. 

It took him a few seconds to remember Archer's latest keep-spirits-up tactic, which they had been briefed on two days ago. 

"St. Patrick's day is coming," he had said, looking around at the senior officers as if this were a matter of great importance. "And this ship had become a veritable graveyard. And since our mood-lightening techniques on Valentine's day didn't go as well as planned-" Archer glared around the table, his eyes training specifically on Trip, Hoshi and Malcolm himself- "we are going to try to do it right this time. Everyone, Irish or otherwise, is encouraged to wear green in some capacity. Senior officers are under orders." At this, T'Pol had almost sighed, Trip had collapsed in laughter and Malcolm, the only one at the table with any Irish blood, at least as far as he knew, had shrunk back from the group and made himself as small as possible. 

Cursing, Malcolm presently doubled back to his quarters, glad he always allowed himself a few extra minutes to get to his shift on time. Two minutes later he stood in front of his closet again, still cursing.

There was nothing green in there. Save a few civilian t-shirts and two pairs of dull grey sweatpants, virtually everything was regulation Starfleet blue. 

Then his eyes fell on the rack in the bottom of his closet, holding two pairs of size-nine boots- one dress, one workout- and an array of white and navy socks. And, one pair of green ones, stained after he mistakenly allowed Phlox to talk him into washing his entire outfit in decon gel after a particularly muddy away mission instead of just resequencing the clothes and replacing them. He was sure the doctor had meant well, but it had dyed his jumpsuit aqua to the point that it had to be recycled anyway. He'd been meaning to do the same with the socks, but had never gotten around to it.

Shrugging, pleased that the one time something had slipped his mind it had actually been of benefit, Malcolm slipped off his duty boots, changed his socks, replaced the boots and cuffed his uniform legs ever-so-slightly, so that the green stuck out less than a centimeter. Hoping that would satisfy the Captain, Reed once again left his quarters and headed for the bridge.

Nothing much happened there either. His shift came and went without remarkability, although hearing Trip Tucker- a green shirt showing through his half-zipped jumpsuit- attempt to trace his roots back to _someone_ Irish was vaguely amusing. On the trail of these new coordinates, all the Enterprise crew really did during their shifts was wait and not die, both things that Malcolm considered himself skilled at. But when nothing came up to make them possibly die, all they did was stand at their consuls and wait. 

With half an hour to go before their shifts ended, Trip got up unannounced and left the bridge, probably off to set up the mess hall for that night's showing of some leprechaun-themed horror movie. After that, the bridge fell silent, and Malcolm allowed himself a glance over at Hoshi. He delicate featured were frowning slightly at something on her screen, which she downloaded curiously to a PADD to read over further. _Probably some beautiful ancient language_, Malcolm thought wistfully, thinking that even pig Latin sounded better when she said it. 

He forced himself to look down back down at his screen, mildly surprised when he met with some sort of message addressed to him. The font was loopy, non-regulation, and the words resembled more of a set of directions through the ship than an actual letter. It seemed something like an innocent prank that Travis Mayweather would play, but the Ensign would never dare to try anything on a higher-ranking officer, now would he?

Malcolm frowned, scrutinizing the note. He tried a simple trace but came up with an intricate series of data loops that sent the trace right back to his station. Attempting to pursue it anywhere beyond a level two trace would have set off the alert klaxons to signal a possible system infiltration, which was something he was not prepared to do over something like this, at least not until it posed a threat. There was still a chance it was a data malfunction, or perhaps one of the MACOs trying to get back at him for the most recent trick with the marbles.*

He would investigate. His shift was over in two minutes anyway, so he stood, touching his holstered phaser briefly, and left as soon as his chrono read o-five hundred. The first direction took him down in the turbo-lift to D deck, then around a usually empty corridor, where he found his first 'clue'. A thin line of gold and green glitter sprinkled the floor near the bulkhead, just as the message said there would be. 

Malcolm raised his eyebrows, taking his hand away from the phaser at his hip. It was becoming increasingly clear that this was not a hostile matter, just a random, albeit immature, game. 

He followed the glitter, wondering vaguely if this was on Captain's orders… perhaps this was his punishment for skipping the movie marathon on Valentine's day to get drunk with Hoshi and Trip instead. 

Hoshi… his mind wandered slightly from the task at hand. 

The trial led him through a few more intersections, down another deck, and down a deserted corridor. All the way there, a trail of glitter traced his intended path.

After at least ten minutes of loops around the ship, Malcolm walked with his head down in frustration, bumping into someone without seeing him.

Her. Oh, God. It was Hoshi. 

"Sorry, Ensign," he mumbled.

"My fault, sir," she replied. Was it his imagination, or was she blushing? No… it couldn't be. Could it?

He straightened, and decided to take a stab at small talk. Unfortunately, he wasn't as good at that as he was at waiting and not dying.

"So what are you up to this evening, Ensign?"

Now she was blushing. He was sure of it. "I… I received this letter at my consul half an hour ago, and I… decided to investigate." Sheepishly, she handed him her PADD. "I know I should have told a ranking officer, but I thought maybe for once I could handle it on my own… it didn't seem dangerous."

Malcolm was about to say something when he looked down at the proffered data unit. On it was a similar set of directions.

"Ensign… I think we've been set up," Malcolm said vaguely. Then, when he realized the double meaning of his words- the possible romantic connotation of the phrase- he felt heat rise in his cheeks. 

Hoshi grinned weakly. "So much for my attempt at bravery. You think we've been on a wild goosechase?"

Malcolm sighed, considering his alternatives, and finally looked Hoshi in the face. "I'm the armory officer, and that's exactly what I'm thinking right now." 

Hoshi frowned lightly. "So… why? Who?"

Malcolm felt his stomach clench slightly, but took the leap anyway. "Who, I don't know. But as for why… I'm assuming it's meant to culminate in this." He made himself meet Hoshi's eyes, and once he did, found that he couldn't move his gaze away. "Would you join me for dinner tonight, En- Hoshi?"

Hoshi blushed redder than Malcolm thought possible, which he found extremely endearing. "I'd love to… Malcolm."

"Great," Malcolm gushed, forgetting himself momentarily and rewarding Hoshi with a full-out grin. "Because I honestly don't think I'm brave enough to face that 'corned beef' dish alone."

Hoshi laughed and, tentatively, like an old-fashioned gentleman, Malcolm hooked his arm in hers and led her off down the corridor. 

Unseen behind a nearby bulkhead, Trip Tucker grinned wildly to himself. His plan, for once, had gone off without a single hitch. Malcolm had obviously assumed that his recent pining had gone unnoticed by all, but in the last month, all Trip had seen his friend do besides work and eat was stare at Hoshi. So he had taken matters into his own hands, and was now quite pleased with the results. 

He turned to leave his stake-out position, and came straight across a thin trail of glitter.

"Funny," he said aloud. "I don't remember this one…"

Trip shrugged and followed it. The single downside to his scheme was that he knew he'd be in charge of the clean-up, so he figured he had better know where all the glitter was so that the Captain wouldn't get on him for ship dirty-ment or something. 

He followed the trail until he felt his body make unceremonious contact with another. "'scuse me," he said, looking up… straight into the eyes of a Vulcan.

"T'Pol!" He exclaimed. "What'r'you doin' down here?" It was a typically unused part of the ship.

T'Pol seemed slightly ruffled- for a Vulcan at least. "I was following these directions," she said smoothly, handing Trip a PADD.

He frowned at it. It was a set of directions, scrawled in the same loopy script he had used on Malcolm and Hoshi's letters, but it was an entirely different set of instructions. 

"I didn't write that," he muttered to himself.

T'Pol lifted one eyebrow. "I never insinuated that you did."

Trip shook his head. "No- you don't understand. I'm the one responsible for this plan- I sent Hoshi and Malcolm on a sorta… um… treasure hunt until they bumped into each other. It was a plan, see, to set 'em up for a date…" T'Pol was still silent. "But I didn't write this one," Trip added.

"Logically, someone else had the same idea as you," T'Pol replied. 

"So then…" Suddenly he grasped T'Pol's meaning, and heat flushed Trip's cheeks. "Who?" he said, not meeting her eyes. "This trace inhibitor is my own creation… no one else on this ship can use it."

T'Pol paused for a moment, making it seem intentional with Vulcan finesse. Finally she spoke. "Perhaps it's a goblin."

Trip stared at her, unsure if she meant it or not- unsure of where she even dug that one up, if it was a joke after all. But what she said next surprised him even more. "Would you accompany me to the mess hall? I would… enjoy the company."

Trip blinked at her, then paused. Then he blinked again. It had been almost two months since their… encounter. Had she finally forgiven him? Slowly a smile spread across his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

Copying Malcolm, thinking that perhaps it was a good time for gentlemanly manners, he offered his arm, which T'Pol took without hesitation. They steered towards the mess hall.

"So I don't think you'll like the corn beef," Trip said as they walked. "But you might want to try the soda bread. Now, I'm not Irish- Malcolm is one-fourth on his mother's side- but I'm not, and I still like the food…" he trailed off, realizing that he was gibbering again. Instead of continuing, he looked down at the PADD that he was still holding in his other hand. 

And he noticed something that he hadn't before. 

Unlike the messages he had sent, this one was signed. And it wasn't signed 'goblin'.

It was sighed 'Leprechaun.'

AN: Well, I don't like it as much as Down With Love (comedyangst kicks arse!), but I still think it's cute… opinions, anyone? I know Malcolm wasn't as suspicious as he should have been… oh well. Happy St. Patty's day to all! 

*If you don't get that, read the novelization of The Expanse.


End file.
